


vergissmeinnicht

by hippocampers



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 15:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17645492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: Scripps visits Posner in the snow.





	vergissmeinnicht

Bread. Margarine (he’s watching his cholesterol). Ham- wait, not ham, can’t have ham. There’s still some corned beef in the fridge, he’s sure of it. Yes, that will do. Cut into half. Then quarters. Triangles, never squares. Pack into Tupperware, put into satchel. All done.

He checks he’s got his keys and his medication, before downing the rest of his tea and leaving the mug in the sink to clean later. It’s always good to have something to take his mind off things when he gets back in.

With a glance out of the window, he grimaces. Best grab a scarf on the way out, he thinks, and slips an umbrella into the bag too. Can’t be too careful at his age.

* * *

“Hi, Don. How’re you doing? You didn’t have to come in this weather.”

Don smiles, brushing the now-melting snow from his woollen coat. “It’s no bother. Rather be here than stuck in the house all day.” The _by myself_ hangs in the air between them, eluding nobody. “The traffic wasn’t bad anyway; clearly everyone else is taking your advice. How’re things?”

“All good. We’ve just done the tea round, so I’ll make you a cuppa.” The nurse – Megan? Molly? Don can never quite remember, there’s two with similar names - grins as she trots off to the kitchen; there’s no need to show him the way. Don knows these corridors like the back of his hand. He smiles at her retreating back, and makes his way – slowly, his knee’s giving him gyp again – to the familiar room 201. He doesn’t bother knocking. There’s no need really, it’s never locked when Don visits.

David is sitting in the armchair facing out of the window, his back to Don. He’s so still that for a moment, Don’s breath catches in his chest, only to free itself when he sees David’s shoulders rise and fall gently. Don swallows back the lump in his throat and takes a step inside. “Hello, you.”

David turns in his chair, and Don feels a guilty flicker of frustration upon seeing the familiar glaze across his lover’s blue eyes. “Hello…” David says warily, brow furrowed as he tries and fails to put a name to a face. “I’m sorry, I don’t—"

“It’s alright, love,” Don tells him with a dismissive wave. “It’s Don.”

“Oh yes,” David says, but there’s a hesitance in his voice that suggests the name has fallen on deaf ears. He turns back to look out of the window. “There’s snow.”

“Indeed,” Don chuckles. “Had to fight my way through it today to get to you. Plays havoc with the arthritis, mind, but it’s a small price to pay.” He takes a seat in the chair next to David’s, reaching over absently to smooth the tartan blanket across the man’s knees. “Have you been watching it fall?”

David tilts his head slightly. “I’m not sure. I think I fell asleep.”

“Well, you’re right by the radiator. That always used to make you sleepy,” Don grins fondly, looking out at the settling snow himself. “Like a bloody cat, you.”

“Did I? I can’t quite recall,” David says.

They settle into comfortable silence for a while, during which the nurse from reception knocks and brings Don his tea, along with a Garibaldi and a wink. Don dunks it contently and reaches into his satchel.

“I bought you some sandwiches, love. And a book. I thought I could read to you.”

David turns to look at the mention of food, a small smile on his face. “Oh, that would be nice. It can’t be lunchtime already, though, surely?”

“It is,” Don nods. “It’s 12.45.” He unclips the sandwich box and takes a triangle quarter for himself. “Would you like one?”

“Yes please. It’s not ham, is it? Mum would have my hide if I had ham again.”

“It’s not ham,” he promises, giving David a sandwich and setting the box on the coffee table between them. He doesn’t bother correcting David; the first time he’d done so, David’s renewed grief at his mother’s death – despite it having been fourteen years ago – was like the day she died all over again, and had been so painful that Don had cried the whole drive home. “Now, I’ve got Poirot or Holmes, which would you rather?”

“Poirot, I think,” David nods, taking a bite of the sandwich and humming contentedly. “Corned beef! I’ve not had corned beef in years!”

Again, Don doesn’t bother explaining he brought corned beef with him yesterday. Instead, he opens the book to the first page. He’s learned now from his mistakes; if he starts from where they leave off the day before, David will frown and ask him why he’s started in the middle. So instead, he reads the first two and a half chapters of Poirot aloud every day until David picks another book. It’s almost a meditation now, Don thinks. He wonders if Agatha Christie had intended for her work to aid in the reaching of enlightenment.

“A note from a killer…”

* * *

When David’s eyes are drooping, Don checks his watch; it’s three already. He closes the book, slipping it into his satchel alongside the empty Tupperware. He chuckles at David’s drowsy smile and pats his knee. “Do you want a drink or anything before I go?”

“Oh, no. I’m quite alright, thank you,” David waves his hand. “I expect they’ll be round with the tea soon.”

“I’m sure they will,” Don nods. He glances to the windowsill, where David’s initial cup sits cold and untouched. He makes a note to let Megan/Molly know.

For a moment, he considers simply not leaving. It breaks his heart to go each day, leaving David in the care of someone that is not him. It’s obvious the man is well-looked after; there are fresh flowers on the side table, the bed always neatly made, and David is always clean and dressed in the soft jumpers and pyjama bottoms Don buys and brings. No, it’s not the quality of the care that hurts him so. It’s the fact that if anyone should be making the bed and washing David’s hair, it’s him. Had been him, for a while, until David’s condition deteriorated, and Don’s hip needed replacing. Still. At least David is happy, serene in his own ignorance.

Don sighs.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, David.” He stands with difficulty, placing a kiss – soft enough to be missed – on the top of David’s head. His hair smells of – soap, and it’s softer now than in his youth. While whitened with age, there is still a healthy thatch atop David’s scalp, not a hint of balding. Don envies him for that if nothing else.

David hums softly. “It was nice remembering you.”

Don lets himself smile, moving to look David in the eye. There is a moment, just one, where that glaze of ignorance disappears. “You remember me?”

“I don’t always remember your name,” the seated man says, taking care with his words. “But I remember that I love you.” David looks him dead in the eye now and reaches out a hand.

This time, he doesn’t bother holding back the tear that makes its way down his cheek. Instead, he takes David’s proffered hand, squeezing it tight as he can without causing pain in the swollen joints. “I’ll see you tomorrow, David.”

“I know,” David says. “You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Vergissmeinnicht is German for 'forget-me-not'.
> 
> This was inspired partly by my dissertation on elderly care (which I am neglecting, I KNOW) and [this lovely interaction](https://twitter.com/itsmeloly_/status/1086303701210296325).
> 
> Also the book Don reads is the ABC Murders by Agatha Christie.


End file.
